of danger and vulnerability
by Amarxlen
Summary: It was easy to distrust him then, cold from war, ruthless in deed. He was the worst kind of monster. And she couldn't stop wanting him. - But probably the truth has always been this: Thomas Shelby is a man and a fool, and just like a foolish man in love, he thought he could have everything. [Rated M for language]
1. of danger and vulnerability

Tommy-fucking-Shelby.

That was how one usually heard his name, those three words in conjunction.

Tommy-fucking-Shelby.

Never just Shelby. And Tommy very rarely.

His name was said like spitting venom. Like pulling teeth, and she should know. His name was said like gunfire in the night-sudden and startling, all at once and gone.

Tommy-fucking-Shelby.

His name was said like lighting a candle. Like fingertips across bare skin, and oh, didn't she know that. His name was said like slipping into bed-comfortable and relieved, drawn out and languid.

That was how it escaped her lips now:

"Tommy-fucking-Shelby."

His fingers dug into the skin of her back, his breath ghosted across her collarbone. He had been disinterested and unattainable, back before it had even crossed her mind to want to attain him. It was easy to distrust him then, cold from war, ruthless in deed. He was the worst kind of monster. And she couldn't stop wanting him.

By all accounts, it shouldn't have been so difficult. The bastard used her to bargain, thinking she was as easy to buy over as any of Birmingham's whores, slipping her money and thinking it mattered. That her head was full of nothing but pretty dresses and what she could buy with three quid.

But she knew that wasn't true. If he saw her as useful, it wasn't merely as a bargaining chip anymore. He looked into her eyes and saw that she was intelligent and tough and something else-and it was the something else that kept him thinking about her.

She felt it first in the way he kissed her in the church, informing her sternly that his business affairs were illegal, before cupping her face in his hands and pressing his lips to hers uncertainly. She felt it in the way his voice broke on "Do you resign?", expectant disappointment on his breath. Her heart hammered in her chest as she answered him defiantly:

"No."

She felt it in the way he pressed his palms, sticky with blood, to her cheeks, anguish carved into his face like a horrible caricature of the man she had come to know. His voice strained as he asked, "Why did you shoot?" But he didn't really need to know, because the warmth of her body wrapped in his arms was enough for the both of them. Something had come over both of them that night, monsters making themselves known. Her ears still rang with the shots, and her hands still shook with the knowledge that he had bludgeoned a man to death to protect her.

He was an enigma of danger and vulnerability.

His skin against hers was somehow both as his fingers explored every inch of her skin. It was a long while before they both fell still, they laid there in silence until she was sure he had fallen asleep. It was only then that she worked up enough courage to run her fingers through his dark hair, though she hadn't been nearly so timid earlier.

Something about this moment reminded her inexplicably of the night he had come in to the Garrison, worry on his face, but not enough trust in his heart yet. That night, he had asked her to sing something sad.

"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, which I gaze on so fondly today," she sang softly, her fingers still working through his hair.

"Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, like fairy gifts fading away. Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art, let thy loveliness fade as it will and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still." Her voice carried through the candlelit room, and she heard the fondness echoing against the walls. It wasn't as terrifying to let go as she thought it would be, lying next to Tommy-fucking-Shelby naked and singing to his sleeping form.

And then suddenly he wasn't sleeping anymore. His blue eyes bored into her own and her song faltered and faded.

"Don't stop on my account," he told her, the sleep in his voice making her heart beat wildly. He continued to stare at her, waiting expectantly for her finish. Hesitantly, she picked up her song again, unable to look away from him, unable to take her hand from his hair, though she couldn't make herself move.

Finally, her song came to a close and no sooner had it finished than her lips were covered by his.

Tommy-fucking-Shelby.

"And what brought this on?" He asked as they separated.

"Before, you told me to sing and I asked, happy or sad. Last time was sad. This time it's happy." She explained.

He murmured his understanding, a small noise from the back of his throat. Pulling her closer, he placed his chin on her head and she nuzzled her face into the arch of his neck.

"Happy," he repeated, a note of disbelief in his voice. "Yes, I suppose it is."

And they stayed that way, happy, until he donned his trousers, his jacket, his shoes. They stayed that way, until Tommy-fucking-Shelby walked out her door, pausing to look back once before disappearing into the predawn light—

Tommy-fucking-Shelby, the bastard leader of the Peaky Blinders.

* * *

I'm not sure if I want to continue this or not. I already have a bit of the next part planned out, but I don't know if it will get written down, or if there's plot for it to go anywhere. I suppose I'll wait for some feedback, cause I looked at the section of FF for Peaky Blinders, and there's only about 7 things written. So please, if you like it, let me know!


	2. of lipstick and devotion

The longer she worked at the Garrison, the more she thought about how her lips would fit with his, and the less she thought about how he fit into her plans for revenge.

His breath tasted like cigarettes and his lips were dry against her own. But his kisses were sweet, and their lips fit together well. Her lipstick was tacky, and when he pulled away he had the stain of it on his teeth. She couldn't help but admire it, as if saying, yes, I was there, the woman who kissed Tommy-fucking-Shelby in churches and hidden rooms. The woman who had got through to his heart. It had never been part of her plan to leave her own vulnerable.

Actually, it had never even been the plan to win his heart, only gain his trust enough that he betrayed his secrets. And there were _so_ many of them. Most of them were secrets he didn't speak aloud, at least not on purpose.

His secrets were held in the glimmer of his eyes when he looked at her, the whispers of a smile when she matched his wit, the strength in his stance as he faced down the world. Things that she thought might be the old Thomas Shelby, raw and real and vulnerable. A man before war. Like a rumpled suit that had been pressed flat but still didn't wear quite right.

Most of his secrets he didn't speak aloud, but some slipped out.

In empty bars, "Already broken."

In hallowed churches, "Do you resign?"

In darkened bedrooms, "I don't hear the shovels."

Pieces of himself he hadn't necessarily meant to share with her began to put together a patchwork doll of a man. The pieces were all Thomas Shelby, but there was no such thing as a cohesive whole where this man was concerned. It was exactly how she felt all the time now, the barmaid, Lady Sarah of Connemara, a whore. She wasn't really any of these things, and the definitions constricted her entire being.

Half of the definitions were foisted upon her by him, and yet, she still felt no need to hold back her words. She was scared of him, yes, but there was so little reason to be kept down by things that scared her, and so much reason to be closer to him.

Her revenge, her feelings, her secrets, and she was so much better at keeping her secrets than he was. It all boiled down to nothing but this:

His lips on hers, the lipstick that marked him hers, and two promises.

His promise to return safely

and

Her promise to break his heart.

They had each lied about many things, but in that instance they both told the truth.


	3. of fools and love

Maybe the truth is this.

Maybe Thomas Shelby is a man, just like any other. And maybe, just like any other man, Thomas Shelby makes mistakes.

He doesn't know if he believes in God or Heaven or Hell anymore, isn't quite sure why being faced with death's door always involves a spoken hymn (_in the bleak midwinter_). But probably if God does exist this is a just and suitable punishment. Something to punish him for all the wrongdoing and wickedness and lies he's managed over the years. Probably it's about time some sort of bad karma caught up to him.

But _fuck_, he had never expected it to be so _cruel_.

And maybe that's what makes him a fool.

For all his schemes, for all his planning and effort, maybe there will always be somebody smarter, with more power, with better connections. Maybe no matter how high he climbs, there will always be somebody higher than him.

He doesn't imagine how he could go any lower than in this moment, how he could possibly lose anything more. The horses nicker at him and kick their hooves gently as another person enters the stables. Another two people. His sister Ada, and tumbling along on chubby legs without a care in the world is Charles.

And maybe his earlier thought makes him a fool too.

As Charles gets closer, Tommy rises from his perch and reflexively opens his arms for the boy who falls into them without a second thought. When Ada speaks, her voice is as unwelcome as it is outraged.

"He needs you, you know. _Around_. Not hidin' with the horses or," she huffs, lingering resentment at still somehow feeling like the sister of a Shelby, but never a Shelby herself carried in the action, "runnin' 'round plottin' whatever it is you're doing."

He doesn't answer her, face expressionless as he tries to keep the razor blade brim of his cap out of his son's grabbing hands. He stares into his son's eyes, wondering simultaneously if there is enough of Grace in him to remember, or too much of her in him to forget. He isn't sure which he'd prefer.

(_in the bleak midwinter_)

It had been love that brought them here, married, in this house, with this child, and so little time to enjoy it. It had been love that brought them here, and foolishness that put her in the ground. He doesn't think there's much of a difference between the two.

Charles decides to grab at Tommy's coat instead, or maybe he's just trying to get his father to put him down. Tommy clings tighter to his boy, and when he still fails to answer Ada, she sighs again and throws up her arms in frustration. She makes it all the way to the door of the stables before she allows herself to turn back towards the pair.

"You hafta come outta there eventually."

Probably Thomas Shelby really is a fool, because this statement gives him pause. He looks down at his son, and thinks maybe he wants to cry, because maybe then some of the pressure on his chest will be relieved. Maybe then he can go back to convincing himself that he's not just a man. Maybe then he can carry on with plots and conspiracies. Maybe when it's all over, he can actually let himself be just a man.

But probably the truth has always been this: Thomas Shelby is a man and a fool, and just like a foolish man in love, he thought he could have everything.

* * *

**A/N:** Wow, another update after so long! Not quite sure where this came from, and I want to let you all know that I haven't actually seen anything of series three beyond episode one. So the only way I know of Grace dying is through spoilers or something else from the internet, and I really hope I did this justice. I hope if there's any inconsistencies you can forgive me, but I also hope it's vague enough that there really _aren't_ any inconsistencies.

Thanks for reading!


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